The Way of the Novel; or, Cowboy Up and Write Already

Writing a novel is not for the common mortal. And I have been all too mortal these days. Too whiney. Too morose. Too passive. Just like the hero of my novel (or so I’ve heard from my ever-patient agent). The End. Ho hum.

Or have I been pressed to set the novel-in-progress aside, called to ride the high plains at a fierce gallop on my white stallion named, um, Ghost, hunting my father’s killer, the wintry wind whetting the knife edge of my vengeance? Have I been tracking the killer through blizzards and stampeding buffalo instead of keeping up with the word count? Have I, instead of developing the plot of said novel, stood, at high noon on a windswept plateau, facing the killer only to discover that he is me. Or I am he. Or it. And have I, instead of mooning about knowing that my perceived lack of progress points to design flaws on a DNA level, sheathed my six-shooter, laughed contemptuously, and dared my double to do his worst? Only to see him do the same, as if in a mirror, and then dissolve before my eyes, as if washed away by the said wintry wind?

I’ll let you decide.

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